The Puppeteer
by Futago no Seishi
Summary: Omi reflects on his unique and dark relationship with Nagi during an intimate encounter. Yaoi Omi x Nagi slightly dark


Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Weiß Kreuz. Though the male characters remain sadly uninvolved in romantic ways within the actually anime and manga, that's what the wonderful world of fanfiction is for.

Pairing: Omi x Nagi

Rating: R

Summary: Sequel to Devil's Doll (though you really don't have to read it to understand the story). Omi reflects on his unique and dark relationship with the younger boy during an intimate encounter.

Warning: All I have to say is there is yaoi in here with somewhat dark undertones. If you know what that is and that you can't handle it, then I suggest you leave. If that wonderful thing is what you came here looking for, then please do stay.

Author's Note: This is set in the same time frame as Devil's Doll is, and supposedly happens later in the same night as the previous story did. It's from Omi's point of view this time, taking an outlook on what he takes their interesting relationship to be like. I meant to write this a long time ago (somewhere around maybe a bit after Devil's Doll was posted), but knowing me… The task seemed hopeless. But eventually I had the urge to write, so I pulled out this little fragment that was rotting on my computer like so many others are and tried to finish it. And now, you have it.

The Puppeteer

            Do you know? I'm not even sure that you are aware of it, but you are. Beautiful, that is. You know, even that word isn't enough to describe you; nothing in any language could, not properly at least. Nothing in this universe could even come close to being compared to you and do your grace and perfection justice.

            Look at me, going on and on about you like some love-sick puppy. Well, maybe I am, but I could never admit it and you know that. But how could I not cherish such an immaculate beauty, such a fragile doll? Yes, that's what you are, my sweet love. My precious doll, and I am the puppeteer. I know that you are aware of it; you always were so perceptive of everything around you. You see things that pass most people by without a single glance on their part. Sometimes I wonder whether there's more to you than you let off. You're always so mysterious, so introverted and quiet, never exposing any of yourself, not even to me. I understand why you might want to do so and it's fine with me, and plus, the aura of the unknown only adds to your sex appeal.

            But what surprises me is that you let me control you. It confuses me why you would submit yourself so wholly to me, let me maneuver your body with my invisible strings like I do. Why would you allow me? Why do you fall limp within my touch and will, following the path that my controlling strings lay out for you when you have it in your power to render me motionless? How does your mind work, my beautiful doll? What goes on behind those vivid eyes of yours, the only part of you that you keep safe, away from my tangled web? You're such an enigma to me; how could I learn to ever comprehend you without you permitting me to?

            I guess you have your strings wrapped around me, too. I may own your body, but you own my emotions, and something I thought I would lose possession of: my heart. Maybe you really are the true puppeteer in this relationship. After all, you have control over my inner self. Somehow, through letting me think that I control you, you've pushed your way in and grasped hold of the silk-fine threads to my mind, heart, and soul. You've learned how to manipulate all of me. All I can ever think about is you. You constantly inhabit my mind; everything reminds me of you, my mind constantly wandering to thoughts of you on its own volition. And my heart aches for you; I am at peace when you are net to me, and internally tormented when I am deprived of your addicting company. Gradually, through all of our illicit meetings, you've managed to taint my mind with visions of yourself.

            Maybe that was your intent all along, Could you be stringing me along, gaining my trust just to later betray me when I've put my complete faith in you? Would you relish in my pain and anguish then? Or maybe you simply enjoy our little game, our hold of power over each other. But possible, you might not even be aware of what you're doing to me, though I doubt the latter. You _always know everything that goes on, with that uncanny ability of yours._

            No one ever pegged me as the broody, contemplative type. I wonder if you thought about me that way, too. Hn, why do I even bother to question? Of course you know; I've exposed myself to you, all of me. You know that everyone's image of me as an innocent, naïve adolescent is just a façade that I erect in order to belie those around me. You've seen the real me, know my darkness, and welcome it. But why do you? What do you find appealing in a fiend of the darkness, when you yourself are like the reincarnation of some mythological god-child?

            I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling with wisps of faint light and dusky hues dancing across it like some marvelous abstract painting. I always wake up so early in the morning, sometimes before the dawn of the new day even comes to pass. Never are you awake at this time; you sleep in, but maybe that's because you never fall asleep when we are together until late in the night when the darkness begins to fade and the stars dim in the velveteen sky. How do I know this? You were still awake once when I had risen particularly early one time. At first I had thought you asleep, but then I felt the soft flutter of your luxurious lashes against my bare chest and the miniscule movement of you lips as you sighed listlessly and knew that you indeed still conscious.

            You really are stunning. Has anyone else ever said that to you besides me? Has anyone else ever had the chance to hold your lithe and petit body within their arms late at night like I have? There's a pinch of jealously forming in me from these thoughts, but I have to suppress them. It doesn't matter who may have had your body before, because now it is mine. My perfect porcelain doll, all mine. I bury my face into that soft chocolate hair of yours, inhaling a sweet scent, with a mildly sharp edge. Cinnamon. You always smell like cinnamon, spicy and heady, and I just can't get enough of you. I nuzzle my nose amongst those silken strands some more, breathing in your intoxicating scent. But I want more. Slowly my lips part and brush softly against the nape of your neck, my arms tightening ever so slightly around your waist.

            With a soft, sleepy moan, you fidget slightly against my touch, body automatically pushing back against mine. I part my lips and dart my tongue out to strike against that perfect skin of yours. Fragile beauty, sinful moans. Your body come to within my embrace, and you respond sleepily to my antics. Turning around, you let your eyes flutter open to stare intently into mine. Honeyed auburn; hazy with sleep but alarmingly alert at the same time. I let my hand slide languorously down your side, and in response, you slide your leg shamelessly up mine before hooking it around my hip and thrusting forward. Your named thrown lecherously from my lips mirrors the quiet gasp in the back of your throat. Our dangerous game has begun once more.

            As I let my passion unfold and you cater to my every desire once more, I still have to wonder. Who owns who; I, with control over your body, or you, with the discreet management of my heart? Who is the true puppeteer? You continue to rove over me, and as I throw my head back in ecstasy, I realize that maybe the both of us are the puppeteers, in our own manner. I grab your shoulders and pull you close as you cause me to scream out your name over and over again. Twine our fingers around silken strings and manipulate to our dark desires. Let the puppeteers play with their delicate mannequins.

~owari~


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